


He Smiled

by hipsterloki



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterloki/pseuds/hipsterloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny is having an off day, thanks to his unrequited love for Mac. Or he thinks it's unrequited, but he can't be too sure. Well, he's not sure of anything - all he knows is: he can't remember a goddamn thing except for Mac smiling at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Smiled

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: CSI:NY and it's characters are property of CBS and I see no profit at all. This is all fake.
> 
> I JUST FOUND THIS OLD STORY I WROTE, I forgot how much this pairing meant to me many years ago. I wrote it for a friend. She gave me the prompt of pining and inner turmoil.

_I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations - one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it - you will regret both._

Well ain’t that shit the truth? It sure as hell didn’t come from me though, but I believe it. Soren Kierkegaard is said to be one of the two founders of existentialism; of course the poor dead guy doesn’t even know it. And it’s not like I believe in existentialism - well I’m sure I believe in the meaning behind what they say. It’s just, all that flowery prose and pompous attitude over what we are and what we continue to be just isn’t my thing. We are what we are, we do what we do, we live how we live and that’s that.

_Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards._

But I do like monologuing with quotes of the guy, maybe that’s why he’s the founder? He’s just so quotable.

“Danny.” 

Oh _fuck_. There is nasty liquid running over my gloved hands and if I weren’t wearing the condom for my hands, they’d be smelling pretty rancid. I turn to brush my face against my shoulder, pushing up my glasses in the process and turn to face the jack ass who just made me spill my concoction of science over my hands.

“Were you doing something important?” And of all people, it had to be Mac standing there in his dark suit, one eyebrow raised in distant curiosity and seeming reproach. That tone of his voice is flat and intriguing, quietly saying, ‘I’m asking a courtesy question but honestly don’t care about the answer - I need to talk to you.’

“Nah, I was just trying to solve a case y’know.” I thought that was really witty - you know, witty? Because I always try to be that around Mac; I always try to impress him with my _wit_ and _humor_.

The arched eyebrow twitches higher up, silently asking me if that was supposed to be funny. Well shit, I still think it was funny. Smacking my lips together, I bow my head slightly just so I could look up at him from underneath my brows. I’ve done it since I was kid; I always though it made me look cool. Since I wear glasses that should in fact make me look like I dork, I am always forced to find new ways to balance out looking like a geek. Because I’m not a geek. I just live and breathe science.

There I go, off in my thoughts while Mac is standing there talking to me. I have no clue what he just said, he could have told me about some bomb threat here in the labs, he could have told me Flack is in the hospital - that would be horrible, he could have told me many things but I’m zoning out. Funny that I know I’m zoning out, but I don’t care. Mac’s thin lips are parting, pink and probably soft. Yeah, they definitely have to be soft. And the eyebrows are furrowing down as he talks, he always does that - I zone out often enough to know all these things about him.

When he shoves papers in my hand, I nearly jump, staring at him with wide eyes. But one of his large hands slide across my shoulders until it’s settled in the middle of my back and he’s guiding me out of the door. Shit. My hands stink. And fuck, the papers probably will stink after all this. But where are we going? This is why you don’t zone out on the job - you’re more likely to be led off, clueless and with your boss’ hand pressing into your back. He has firm hands, ones that could grapple you down easily--

“You’ll be going with Hawkes.”

“What?”

And he’s giving me that look again. The look of sheer disappoint at my inability to focus. I want to blame it on him, at least just a little bit. I mean, fuck, how am I supposed to focus with his hand on my back. His hand is still on my back and I can’t focus because his hand is warm through the fabric of my shirt. And the glare makes me hotter, not like that either you sick-o. I just, I mean, I’m damn blushing because he’s glaring at me with disapproving eyes and all I’ve ever wanted was to prove myself to him. Not just to prove myself to him, but to impress him. I’ve always wanted to just, connect with him.

“Danny, are you listening?”

“No,” I let out a sigh and shove my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. “Sorry Mac, I just, I’m having an off day.”

“Are you going to be able to work - If this is going to impede you from doing your job then I’ll send you home.” And he’s completely serious. Of course he’s completely serious, when is Mac not? He’s the most stoic, unflinching man you could talk to. He won’t laugh, he won’t frown, he just has this distant, angular take on things and I wish I could touch him. Not just physically, you know? Touch him, make him feel something in his cold little heart.

“Nah, I’m fine. I’m sorry. Run it by me again.”

“You and Hawkes, check a murder down on West 42nd Street, death by multiple gunshots. Do I have to run it by you again?” Mac’s pissed. Well I think he’s pissed and that’s enough for me to feel like a kicked puppy. Okay, a puppy is degrading, but I feel like a kicked around pet. Which is not degrading at all.

I shake my head and force a smile, wriggling my eyebrows as I turn to leave. What else can I do? Not much let me assure you, I can’t do shit when it comes down to Mac. First of all because he’s my superior, and second because it’s Mac. What else do I have to say? He’s the one man who’s successfully put me in a headlock and made me want to be in said headlock. He’s the one man who can continually give me those kinds of looks and that’s fine too, because I like it. I like everything he gives me the bad and the worse because it’s all I get.

“Are you ready?” This time it’s Hawkes addressing me, watching me expectantly.

Seriously. Can’t people see I’m having some kind of inner turmoil here? I’m fucking crying inwardly over Mac for fuck’s sake and no one notices? I guess I should be happy about that, I mean, I’m whining about Mac. And not just any whining, that sappy, I need him whining. That’s some powerfully stupid shit.

West 42nd street isn’t too far off, but it’s far enough for me too lose myself, staring at the gray buildings rolling by. Smudges of colorful dots go along with them and I suppose those are the people too, but I’m not really paying attention. If you forget where you are, what you’re looking at, the blurring colors are beautiful.

People are focusing back into view, buildings becoming straight and tall like they once were and we’re parked in front of a large building. Hawkes is out with his kit before I even register we’re at our designated destination. I’m so out of it, probably all of this monologuing. Don’t do it, it’s a curse, monologuing all the time. Fucking ridiculous.

I help him carry some of our stuff up to the third floor where some poor old gal has four bullet holes to her chest. And I mean, she’s not really that old at all. I always feel bad for every victim I see, you never know who they are, how they were, what they were. All you see is this, their lifeless body splayed out for the world to see. But not yet, right now it was still just me and them. No one else, except for the few police officers standing around and Hawkes who is busy snapping photographs and examining the room.

And it’s that part of the job that always gets me. This and the victims of crimes, be it the family, or the people surrounded by the crime. I notice a smudge of dirt on the wooden floor and motion Hawkes over who wipes it up with a q-tip and drops it into a labeled baggie. All in a days work, right?

And what a day’s work it is. I’ve got results to analyze for Mac’s case, my own evidence to dig through and Lindsay to deal with. Yeah, didn’t see that one coming right? What with me going on and on about Mac, but I’ve got to work with the whole relationship thing with Lindsay and it’s troublesome alright.

I love her, I guess. I mean, she’s the perfect girl and so many people tell us we’re the perfect pair. We’re both small, tough and humorous types of people right? Should be a perfect fit, we get along great. But that’s it, we get along great and when the time comes, we fool around just as great but it just isn’t the same.

I have this overwhelming longing that I feel every time I’m forced to look at Mac in the eyes. It’s his eyes too, that calculating gaze of his that makes you think he knows much more than you want him to. It’s a gaze that messes with your sense of security, with your ease of mind and yet, you yearn for it. At least I do, I like that look because he’s looking. He’s not just glancing past you, looking around you, he’s peering into you and I want him to. I want him to look right at me and see something worth seeing because I am. I’m worth fucking noticing and it just isn’t fair that he doesn’t acknowledge me in that kind of a way.

“Fuck,” I groan, realizing that for the fourth time in a row, I’ve managed to fuck up the test to find out if this hair belonged to someone fucking important. When I drop my hands onto the table and look up from my failed experiment, I see him looking at me again.

How does he manage to see me here at my worst? But he’s watching and his eyes are flickering with an emotion I recognize as distaste. He doesn’t think I can notice or place that emotion so easily, but I can. I’ve seen it on him so many times before, I can place the small glimpse of emotion easily, or so I think - I can always be wrong about these kinds of things.

He’s turning to walk away, because I’m not worth scolding anymore. Or I’m not worth the time of trying to figure out what has fucked with my mind lately, I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking. Sad thing is he’s the one thing that’s fucking with my mind. He probably thinks I’m having trouble with Lindsay - again. Which I am, but hey, that’s neither here nor there man.

And though we all worked late, the day passes by quickly and I’m telling you, I honestly hear the pub calling out my name. Danny, Danny Messer, come on man, come on over, Danny--

“Danny?” I stop in front of the elevator, pausing from shrugging my jacket on. It’s Lindsay. “Danny, are you okay, Mac said you’ve been acting a little weird.”

“I’m fine,” I sigh, sliding my arm through the sleeve and tugging down my jacket, smoothing it out.

“I’m worried about--”

“Stop it, please.”

“I’m just worried you’re still not over that boy’s death.”

“Lindsay it’s been months.” I’m forced to acknowledge her and I turn away from the elevator and look back at her. Just looking at her makes my stomach fall uncomfortably, it’s not a pleasant feeling.

“Exactly, and I know you’re still troubled by it.”

“Hey, here’s a thought: ya don’t know. Ya don’t know me, so how about ya drop it?” And after the words leave my mouth, my angry voice echoing and silencing all at once, I feel a wave a regret. Man, when things go wrong, they seriously go wrong. When I fuck up, I really fuck it up.

Linsday has that pained expression on her face, wide eyes glazing over in tears. Fuck. I open my mouth to apologize but she’s shaking her head, silently telling me to save it as she turns on her heel and briskly walks away from me and my attitude. Yeah, I know I’ve got one and I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, I just, I mean can’t I get a break. I’m having an off day, can’t a guy have a fucking off day? Just once?

I rub my face roughly, trying to remind myself that I’m in fact still here and not in some nightmarish dream. I press the down button repeatedly until the elevator doors slide open and I step in. The pubs are really calling out for me now, I can definitely hear it. Danny, Danny, Danny-boy. That’s it, call my name, God knows I need to hear it. God knows I need a drink.

And it’s not long before I’m sitting at the counter, downing my fifth Heineken and signaling the sixth one with a sort of pathetic desperation. And I am desperate and pathetic, no point in hiding - I know what I am. The beer is icy cold all the while warming my body, it’s a nice feeling. Even nicer when I move and I feel everything slush around, my insides rocking back and forth and making me nauseous and smile at the same time.

I let out a sigh and start sipping my sixth beer intently. Not only has the six pints of beer kept me company for this long night, but two shots of tequila have also been my temporary friends. It’s fine, I can hold my own just fine. But the world is starting to tilt painfully to the right and I’m sure I’ll fall over if I don’t slump to the left just far enough to - there, perfect. My head his nearly laying on the counter top, my fingers gripping the chilled glass and I’m probably hanging off the left side of my stool, but hey, I’m wasted.

“Danny,” it’s a sharp, exasperated tone that pierces through my inebriation. I’d know that tone anywhere.

The only thing passing through my foggy mind is, what the fuck is he doing here? “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask with a small bubbling laugh, almost hysterical but not quite. I’m just drunk.

“Lindsay is worried about you.” He’s telling me as he sits down next to me, grabbing a hold of my shoulder and pulling me up right on the stool. The world slides, shifting and toggling in my vision and I’m swimming. Dude, I’m swimming.

But really, in all seriousness, who cares! “Who cares!”

“Danny, you’ve had enough to drink,” and I can hear the annoyance in his voice. The annoyance that he as to come out of his way to drag my ass from the pub. Poor Mac, always having to go out of his way to take care of me. I slide the contents of my glass around haphazardly and smile up at him. I still got some.

“I still got some.”

But that doesn’t seem to stop him because he’s sober and he understands that I’m not. I’m very much gone and I can’t tell how gone I am - that’s how far gone I am. I feel a strong arm wrap around my shoulders and yank me out of my seat. Bleary eyed, I watch the green dollar bills flutter onto the counter and it makes me want to laugh.

I laugh.

He’s staring down at me and I’m laughing joyously, leaning against him, head resting on his shoulder like I’m his girl or something. But it’s ‘cause I’m gone. I’m really, really far gone and wasted and drunk. I’m drunk.

“I’m drunk.” I state loudly, clinging onto him. And I’m clinging like he’s the one thing tethering me to life - he is.

Mac is funny, he looks so stern and angry all the time. I just want to make him laugh a bit, make him smile a bit, make him feel happy for a bit. Truthfully I’m a little jealous of Lindsay or I was, because she was able to do with Mac in a couple of weeks what I had been trying to do for years. She had understood him. She had connected with him. And I being the complete dumbass that I am, can’t even make him smile.

He’s flagging down a cab to send me home, but when he lets go I’m falling flat on my face. And I’m laughing. Because I’ve never had this much fun before! Mac picks me up and hauls me to my feet, a displeased frown etched onto his face, creasing the lines of his forehead, making him glare some more. He knows I won’t make it with a cab so he waves it off and drags me to his car.

He’s a good guy. “You’re a good guy.” I’m slurring pitifully, leaning halfway on top of him in the car. Even the bucket seats won’t stop me from laying over Mac. I’m drunk. I can do this.

He ignores the blatant disrespect for personal boundaries and just pulls onto the street, taking turns here and there and it’s surprising how quickly he gets me to my apartment complex. It’s crazy how fast he got me out of the car and into the elevator. I’m fucking astounded that he knows my apartment number like he’s been there a thousand times. Ah, who am I kidding, I’m fucking _drunk_. I don’t know how fast he’s moving, everything moves too fast for me. I don’t know how sure he is, he always looks sure to me. And I definitely don’t know that’s my wallet he’s holding in his hands, thumbing through to find my drivers license so he could find out where I live.

I don’t know. All I know is Mac is hot when he’s angry. Mac is hot when he’s stern. Damn, Mac is hot all the time. He shoves me onto the bed and I’m still clinging onto him like some desperate floozie. I am desperate.

“I am _desperate_.” The last word is almost incomprehensible with my horrible slurring but he understands and stops wrestling with me to get me to let go of him for just a moment.

There are those eyes again, staring at me, analyzing me, wanting to puzzle me together to understand what the fuck is going on through my head. My hands are tangled in his shirt, and I’ve got a great grip, I mean I’m small but I’m built. You know? Built. So I’m gripping tight and I won’t let go, I just can’t, not when he’s looking at me like that.

“Danny,” my name always sounds good coming from him. But this time it’s a sigh, something tired and curious and amused and I want him. I want him so bad, it hurts.

“Maaaaaaac,” I drawl on with a laugh rumbling in my chest and bubbling out of my throat. “Mac, I am drunk! And desperate and drunk!” And I can’t control what I’m saying, though something in the back of my inebriated mind is telling me to shut the fuck up. Sorry dude, I can’t.

He’s rolling his eyes at me and that’s all I can stand. If he’s not going to do this, I am and with a tug that he’s not expecting, I yank him down and sloppily crash our lips together. Woah, his tongue is warm and slick and is diving down my mouth and into my throat. God, he’s dominating and I can’t care, I don’t care, I won’t care because this is what I want. I want him and he’s going for it now, hands gripping my shoulders, squeezing me closer, teeth clashing against mine almost painfully.

But I don’t feel it, all I do feel is the thick tongue sliding against mine, the weight of his body falling on top of mine, his hips grinding against mine. Wow, it feels good. It feels so good.

“It feels so good,” I groan out, head falling back onto the pillows, my glasses sliding up onto my forehead. My vision is fucked, all I see are constant blurring colors and damn is it nauseating and it makes me realize how drunk I really am. I’m so close to vomiting and passing out it’s not funny. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to miss this because his fingers are opening my pants, jerking down the zipper, snagging the denim on my sharp hips and pulling them halfway off.

His mouth is on my stomach, licking down and tracing my belly button and shit, he’s done this. Mac’s done this before - I’m not his first guy and he’s not my first either and we’ve both done this and it’s turning me on. A throaty groan rolls from my lips and I buck my hips, begging for more.

He’ll give me more. His mouth is on the head of my cock, tasting, licking, sucking. Fuck man, he’s good. How is fucking Mac Taylor good at this? Don’t ask me, but he’s good - or maybe I’m just too drunk to figure out what’s good and what’s bad anymore. But I’ll just say he’s good, because that swirling tongue gliding over the tip can’t be anything but good. And his lips are wrapping over it, wet and tight and suctioning. I’m going to come. I’m going to come pathetically soon and I want him to fuck me. I want him to fuck me into the mattress because it’s what I’ve daydreamed so much about.

“Fuck me,” I rasp, my hips still rolling into his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s looking up at me since I can’t figure out how to slide my glasses from my forehead down to the bridge of my nose again, but I do feel cold air hit my cock, sending a shiver up my body.

He’s going to fuck me. I know it by the way he’s sliding my jeans off. I know it by the way slick fingers are digging into me and if I weren’t so fucking plastered I’m sure I would have tensed and writhed and groaned in pain. Instead I rock my hips, needing more of it. And I don’t know where he got that lube from but his fingers are sliding easily in and out in a matter of minutes. I can’t see it, but I know he’s watching me. I can feel his stare, looking me over intently. I’m sure I look fucking wanton. I’m tossing my head, I’m moaning for more and rolling my hips with a need that I’ve never felt before.

He must like it. I feel him slide out his fingers, replacing them quickly with something much bigger. It takes me a minute to realize that he has somehow managed to find a condom and put it on, but honestly, that’s just details because he’s fucking me. And it’s never felt better. My hands are reaching up, gripping onto his shoulders tightly, my legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him further in. Fuck, I needed this. Mac, I need you.

“Mac, I need you,” I’m moaning and he’s quiet save for the small grunts and heavy breathing leaving his mouth. His lips find my neck, sucking and nipping at the scruffy skin there. It feels good, too good and I want this to last, I want to remember all of this.

A wave of panic crashes through me. I’m not going to remember. I’m the worst kind of drunk. The drunks who drink to get drunk to forget everything - because I definitely forget. I don’t remember a goddamn thing and Mac is whispering something into my ear, something about me and how hot this is and oh my God - I’m not going to remember. I dig my fingers into his shoulder blades, nails cutting into his skin and he’s groaning. Not like before, this groan is loud and unexpected and I know he’s coming. He’s coming and his hand finds my hard cock, giving it a few rough pulls before I’m coming too. The heat is spreading, reaching out to my toes making me tense and the pleasure is fucking great.

We’re kissing. He’s still rocking his hips against me, and the panic isn’t a wave anymore. It’s a fucking ocean. This is great. This is amazing. I’m not going to remember a goddamn thing. He’s pushing my glasses into place, smirking down at me with just a hint of emotion swirling in those eyes of his. The fucker knows it. He knows I’m going to black out soon. Goddamn, Mac-fucking-Taylor. He knows more about me than I will ever know about him. And here I go, the black seeping into the corners of my eyes and I’m looking up at him with this shit-eating grin and I swear I can see him smiling back down at me but… I’m out.

When I wake up, I’m sprawled under the covers of my bed. How the hell did I get here, I have no clue. All I can remember is two shot of tequilas and an ass load of beer. And Mac. But what the fuck am I remembering Mac? That’s ridiculous - no, this headache is ridiculous. My ass throbbing is fucking ridiculous and - oh fuck - I got raped. Straight up. I can’t remember a goddamn thing and I must’ve had some promiscuous fucking sex with God knows who.

“Fuck man,” I groan and my voice is too loud for me. My head throbs sharply and I roll over, staring at the ceiling and then looking over at my nightstand. I pick up my glasses that were conveniently set on the corner and put them on, focusing on my alarm clock. Oh shit.

I’m late for work. Why I drank so much baffles me - probably Lindsay’s fault, damn girl is always working on my nerves. No, I’m not that much of an asshole. It wasn’t Lindsay’s fault. Poor girl just happened to get involved with a guy that has a serious fucking crush on his boss - another guy. Mac. It’s Mac’s fault.

The smile. God I remember him smiling but it’s foggy and distant. I try grappling the image in my mind. I try fighting to recognize what might have happened to get him to smile like that. But it must have been a dream. For me, he’d never smile like that. But those lips, I can see them, I can almost feel them. This is a weird feeling. It feels like I experienced something important, something life altering but I can’t remember and it hurts to even try.

I’m not going to even try. Instead I pop a handful of ibuprofen into my mouth, down a cup of coffee, grab my jacket, smooth down my unruly mess of dirty blonde hair and walk out of my apartment. My motorcycle isn’t there. Shit. I must have left it at the pub. How awesome. So I hail a cab and pay a ridiculous fare for them to get me work. What the fuck ever man. I can’t even care because as much I’m trying not to try to think about last night, small pieces of images are fucking around in my brain. Hands and mouths and kissing and touching. And blurs. All I remember now are flashes of blurs, the only thing slightly crisp in my head is Mac’s smile but that’s stupid, that definitely must have been a dream.

I get out of the cab, reluctantly toss some of my hard earned cash to the driver and head up to work. My head is still pounding, my mouth still feels dry and I see Lindsay walking straight to me, worry lining her face.

“How are you Danny?” She’s asking, sympathy in her eyes. She always has that look of, ‘I care’ on her face and seriously - it’s annoying. Especially today.

“I’m fine,” I manage to mumble out before continuing on towards my lab.

And there is the evidence waiting for me to sort it out and figure who killed Jane Doe. I let out a sigh and grab a pair of tweezers, slowly beginning the tedious task of looking over the blood stained sweater. I swear I see something tangled in the threads and I’m attacking with my tweezers, trying to yank that fucker out. What is it? I have no clue but I’m fighting with the sweater, my tweezers too big for the thin thread sticking out or maybe it’s the headache that’s too big making my depth perception all wonky.

“Danny.”

Oh _fuck_. I stab the tweezers into the cheap fabric of the sweater and rip a tiny hole into it. Great. Chalk one up for worst starts of the day ever. I turn around to look at the jack ass who just made me fuck up trying to get this thread out. And now that I’ve looked away it’ll probably cost me another ten minutes of searching to find it again.

“Were you doing something important?” And of all people, it had to be Mac standing there in his dark suit, one eyebrow raised in distant curiosity and seeming reproach. And his tone is the usual, ‘courtesy question but _blahblahblah_.’ You know the drill. It’s fucking Mac and he’s serious and well, here goes my usual response.

“Nah, I was just trying to solve a case y’know.” And my surprise is evident because I swear to Jesus that I saw his lips curve. I’m staring at him, pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose carefully and yes, there it is. It’s subtle and small, but it’s there. The little, amused smile.

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, and I don’t either. But he still has that small inquisitive smile, as if he just found the joke and is trying to understand if it was funny or not. The smile spreads slightly into this pleased sort of gesture. He’s decided that it’s funny today and I seriously don’t fucking know what got into Mac but he’s smiling knowingly at me. Just like the piece of the foggy puzzle I’ve been trying to put together in my head all morning.

I look down at the floor for a minute, regaining my bearings because Mac fucking smiled at me. Not through me, not in a polite gesture but he smiled at me, with me, to me. When I look up, the smile is gone but the remnants of it are hidden in his stern eyes.

“We’ve got a new case, you’re coming with me.” He says and he’s gone. Quick as that, he’s gone.

But I saw it, and I see him and I think I absolutely fucking love the man. I set down my tweezers and pull off my lab coat. Yeah, I absolutely love him and I don’t know if he knows it yet, maybe one day I’ll get enough courage to tell him. Or maybe one day I’ll invite him out to drink so we can get plastered enough to fuck and blame it on the alcohol the next day. Maybe one day, but he’s waiting impatiently for me right now, so I stop with the ‘one day’s and race on over to him so we can go solve a case, that’s what we Crime Scene Investigators do after all, right?

But honestly, I can’t remember a goddamn thing only that he fucking smiled at me.

 

End.


End file.
